


One Heart Beats, One Heart Breaks

by hummingbird_salt



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Gen, Mag7Week, Major Character Injury, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-04 16:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12172311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hummingbird_salt/pseuds/hummingbird_salt
Summary: Those who return, who don’t stay good and buried after their untimely death, are not generally regarded with anything more than fear and disgust. When they’re even believed to exist in the first place, hardly a soul will mark them charitably. Cursed and deceptive, they say. Most assuredly from hell itself.Emma’s never been too concerned with what others tell her.





	One Heart Beats, One Heart Breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Mag7Week. I decided to mix one of today's prompts (Supernatural) with a prompt from yesterday (Outside POV). Hope you all enjoy. :)

Death takes its toll one brutal, crimson day in Rose Creek. Blow after blow is dealt, life after life extinguished. At the end of it all, the town is won by those who deserve it.  

Emma Cullen feels as though a thick fog is dissipating around her. There's a sense of reassurance, some sliver of justice still left in the world. Bogue is dead along with all his men, and while death alone is better than any of them are worthy, it'll have to do.

Even in the midst of relief, something can't be ignored.

Lives have been restored and lives have been lost. She feels satisfaction at the thought of Bogue and his men, but what strives for contentment in her heart falls to a cold ache. So many she'd known and cared for are dead now, too. All the loss pains her, and something like shame claws at the edge of her mind. More than anything, she's left feeling numb.

She wishes they could all return, of course. It would be a miraculous thing, to see each person back in the arms of their loved ones. But she would be lying if she claimed her impossible wish spread itself evenly. Its a thin, selfish thing, loath to chance generosity even in the private whispers of her mind. No one but Matthew pulls that desperation from her heart, that need to see the world shift backward and undo its cruelty.

She'd known from the start it would be this way.

But while her sorrow remains, she doesn't regret anything. Finding Sam Chisolm and six other men, all reckless and capable enough to help, all driven by reasons they'd kept buried down deep. She doesn't regret the battle or witnessing something so righteously fought for. She knows Matthew would've been proud of his town, and proud of her. That's what matters.

Chisolm and his company all move on, in one way or another. Six leave Rose Creek, only after repeated assurance that rebuilding from the aftermath isn't their responsibility.

One out of the seven, Joshua Faraday, remains as another life lost.

Emma had only glimpsed him riding off towards the Gatling gun, but afterward, it hadn't been difficult to piece together what must've happened. She's grateful to him, to all of them. When she'd learned of his death, she'd felt a greater sorrow bleed out for just a moment, filling that hole of relentless detachment. Each of them has earned her unending gratitude, and more. While Faraday is the only one now gone, she knows they'd all fought with the understanding of what they could lose.

Before they leave, the six of them decide it best to stay long enough to see Faraday placed in his coffin.

His body is in one piece, but no less marred and torn than one would expect of a man caught up in an explosion. Riddled with gunshot wounds, flesh bloody and charred. One of his legs is twisted unnaturally and split open at the knee, somewhat detached though still mostly together.

The dynamite broke his body in several ways, but his form is positioned respectably inside the coffin. His hat is placed upon his chest and his guns are in their rightful place at his hips. His cards, partially degraded by fire, peek out from his vest pocket. While his face isn't untouched by injury, it's thankfully been spared of any upsetting mutilation.

There's something undeniably off-putting about the absence of light and expression on a face now gray and cold, but considering the circumstances of his death, the fact that there's any face left to see can't be taken for granted.

The six men all walk forward to bid their fallen friend goodbye, expressions solemn, hats off in respect.

Emma can hear them speaking, their voices low. She can't make out any words, but Chisolm says something with the slightest hint of a smile. A few of the others laugh softly, and though it's not a bitter sound, it lacks any real mirth. She suspects they're sharing a memory of Faraday, no doubt something irreverent that would've had him laughing right along with them.

After a short while, they all begin to walk away, some casting one final glance toward their companion. The last to leave is Vasquez, who lingers a few moments longer and pulls something from his vest. Emma watches as he places a bottle—whiskey, she thinks—into one of Faraday's pockets with a great deal of care. His hand rests on top of the pocket before he finally turns to follow the others.

When she hears the distant sound of their horses, it's a moment of surreal finality. The battle is done. It's over.

The lid is placed on the coffin, and that same unreal sense of completion flickers more sharply in her mind. Some have already been laid to rest, and there are others still to bury, but there's a significance to this moment. Joshua Faraday is lowered into the ground, and it feels like the vague promise of closure. There's still so much to be done, but for now, one man who'd fought for something that didn't belong to him can rest.

As the three men who'd lowered the coffin pick up their shovels to fill the grave, Emma turns to see if she's needed elsewhere.

She doesn't get the chance. Before she's even stepped away, even lifted her foot, a muffled sound leaves her frozen in place. Her body responds before she does, locking up tight, comprehending a grim, peculiar thing faster than her mind is able.

The sound itself isn't so alarming—a sudden intake of breath, she thinks—but the source of it is unmistakable.

Down low from behind her, deep in the ground.  

Faraday's coffin.

For a moment, she wonders if she'd imagined it. When she forces herself to turn, she finds that her wide-eyed expression is matched by the three men at the graveside. All together, they let their gazes drop down, unblinking as they stare into what now seems a rather ominous cavern gaping in the dirt. 

Despite their anticipation, none of them are prepared for the desperate gasp they hear next. A solid knock strikes the wood of the coffin.

Emma’s mouth goes dry. Her heart beats hard and fast, and as the world turns all muddled and blotted, dread fills her belly like a thick, congealing spill. It drags, pulling until her focus sharpens on the oddity resting below, near-buried in the earth. This isn't the result of a mistake, the unsettling consequence of a death pronounced too soon.

No. She’d seen his body. Without question, they'd put a corpse into that coffin.

Nothing simple, then. Nothing natural. She retreats into her mind, one question spinning in a dizzy haze, and already she's thunderstruck by the inevitable answer. Everything is veering off track, careening toward the impossible—what  _should_ be impossible.

Growing up, she heard her fair share of legends and fairy tales, some carrying fragments of truth and others understood to be purely imagined. But there's one story she’s heard all her life, one that never ceases being told, one that hardly anyone has the arrogance to fully disregard.

She doesn't reckon anyone on earth has missed these tales, story after story of those who can't be killed.

It's outlandish, she knows. _Everyone_ knows. But the sheer number and variety of people who claim to have seen the evidence with their own eyes can't be ignored, and if pressed, even some of the most skeptical, grounded folks will concede it may not be purely a myth. 

 _Must be some truth to it,_ they say. _Men and women beyond the clutches of death itself._

A new reality wraps itself around Emma's mind. Any doubts she may have had slip away like nothing. There's no ignoring what she'd heard, and all she can do is keep firmly planted, stock-still as her eyes focus deep into the grave.

Her ears catch an intake of breath, long and ragged, ending in a harsh gasp.

There's another knock against the wood, louder this time, more insistent. She clenches her jaw. Something weak drifts from the coffin, a muffled noise tinged with weary confusion. It rises, morphing into a short cry, and to hear a _voice_ , so loud and clear, is almost enough to seize the air from her lungs.

Like shattering glass, a scream cuts into the air, winding a brutal path to every ear.

Her heart twists. It works its way straight to her throat as her body goes rigid. The pounding from inside the coffin continues, growing frantic, and the screaming doesn't stop.

She looks up, eyes locking on the three men standing across from her.  Perhaps she means to ground herself, to focus on anything besides the nightmare unfolding below, but her reason hardly matters.  It takes only one look at these men, gawking dumbly as they stand frozen in place, and she's able to muster some clarity. 

Faraday is _alive_ in his grave, thrashing in a pine box, and no amount of fear can excuse them for leaving him down there any longer. Swallowing, she finds her voice.

"Get him out," she says. The three of them look at her like she's lost her goddamn mind. "Don't just stand there, _get him out!_ "

The three men startle into action and do as she says, unable to argue. They grab the ropes they'd used to lower the coffin, noticeably shaken. Emma bends down and takes the other side of one rope into her hand, and all four of them pull, straining from the weight of it.

The coffin rocks unsteadily on top of the ropes, jostled by the agonized man trapped inside, and it takes considerable effort for Emma to catch her balance. When she does, she pulls with all her strength, hissing at the burn of the rope against her palms. It’s a slow, miserable struggle, but they finally get the coffin firmly on top of the ground. Emma doesn’t hesitate to grab a shovel, hardly noticing the raw redness of her palms.

Quick as she can, she pries it open, ignoring the crowd forming around her. Desperate cries serve as her only focus, her rising motivation. Exhausted, she practically collapses to her knees, shoving the coffin lid away. It falls to the ground, and a dreadful sight meets her eyes.

Faraday is writhing like some half-killed animal, bloodied and torn but remarkably, painfully breathing. No longer separated from fresh air, he takes in several, shuddering gasps, eyes wild, red with tears. His skin is still deathly pale, contrasted only by the various burned and bloodied portions of his flesh.

Emma takes in the condition of his body for the second time, feeling sick at the full comprehension that his injuries are no longer those of a dead man. Every open wound, every broken bone, every bullet and piece of shrapnel buried deep inside him.

She isn't surprised when he starts screaming again.

His back arches as his nails scrape against the wood of the coffin. He's only making things worse, but Emma can't imagine he's able to comprehend anything beyond the pain coursing through his body. She'll have to comprehend it for him.

Pressing her hands against his shoulders, she holds him down.  Her fingers grip torn fabric and charred skin, trembling as she tries to find the right pressure.  She doesn't want to cause further injury, but she needs to be firm.

He thrashes, aimless and desperate, his broken body stronger against her hold than she'd expected.  She sets her jaw, arms straining as she fights to keep him in place.  Despite her efforts, he squirms forcefully enough to twist his mangled leg. 

A wretched sound tears from his throat. She looks down at his leg to see the skin split open even wider, feeling bile rise up as she takes in the sight. She turns her attention back to his face, placing a hand on his cheek.

"You need to stop," she says, voice shaking as his movements jostle her body. "I know it hurts, but you're only makin' it hurt worse."

His pained gaze meets her own as he continues to struggle, unfocused but seeming to comprehend at least some of what she's saying.

"You're gonna tear yourself apart."

He pulls in a weak breath, choking on a sob. Her words do little to calm him, only providing a brief pause in his distress. He pushes up against her hold again, a combination of agonized moans and short gasps sounding from his throat. Emma looks around, taking in the horrified faces of her fellow townsfolk.

She spots Teddy.

He doesn’t look any less stunned than all the others crowded around, but when he sees her looking his way, he rushes over without hesitation. Soon, it’s both of them holding Faraday down, careful to avoid the worst of his injuries as he writhes underneath them. Emma mutters soothing words despite knowing they won’t do a thing.

She isn’t sure how long they hold him there, but over time, exhaustion seems to overwhelm Faraday. His struggles grow weak, and his breath hitches in his throat. Eyes red and swollen, he gazes off distantly.

"Hurts," he chokes out, and it's the first word he's said since waking. It hardly sounds like a word from his ravaged throat, and Emma can't help thinking he can't be all that cognizant if he thought it needed saying.

She breathes heavily, tired and shaken, and looks around at the townsfolk again.

"Mr. Faraday will be needing a bed and proper care," she says, voice steadier than she'd expected.

She doesn’t miss the discomfort in the eyes surrounding her, and she isn’t a fool. Those who return, who don’t stay good and buried after their untimely death, are not generally regarded with anything more than fear and disgust. When they’re even believed to exist in the first place, hardly a soul will mark them charitably. Cursed and deceptive, they say. Most assuredly from hell itself.

Emma’s never been too concerned with what others tell her.

"This man fought for us,” she says. “I don't want to hear a word about the unholy nature of men who can't be killed."

No one argues.

 

* * *

 

As two days pass by, relentless in their supply of hardship, Emma feels as though a new fog is descending around her.

Rose Creek is broken, and the determination to see it mended is at constant odds with the sheer exhaustion of it all. Each and every person is worn and tired, physically and mentally overwhelmed but unable to give in. They're all in mourning for the loved ones now gone, and that much more grateful for the ones still blessedly at their side.

The worst of those first few days, at least from Emma's perspective, are the hours spent at Faraday's bedside.

She feels a sense of obligation towards him, one of seven men who'd made the restoration of her town more than a desperate hope. Even setting that aside, she's one of few people in the midst of fear and suspicion willing to put herself in his company.

No one has dared to argue that he doesn't deserve their gratitude or their help in his recovery, but Emma doesn't fail to notice that she, Teddy and the town's doctor are the only three who will come anywhere near him. Part of her thinks it's for the best, as she witnesses Faraday go through hell and feels confident that the sight of him would only disturb the townsfolk even more.

After he'd first woken, the process of getting him into a bed had been a struggle. It hadn't been possible to carry him without aggravating his injured body, and even after they'd finally settled him onto the mattress, he'd been a gasping, convulsing mess, unable to hold himself still.

The doctor had done all he could, cleaning and bandaging wounds, setting broken bones as he'd suffered through each unbearable sound that tore from Faraday's throat.

Worst of all had been the partially severed leg, looking so gruesome and sickly, mangled beyond repair. But Emma had known, as had the doctor, that the mending of Faraday's body was something entirely different than the healing of an ordinary man. The mere fact that his heart and lungs had renewed their function at all had shown a greater ability within him than either of them were suited to predict.

Realizing this, the doctor had opted not to amputate the damaged leg, unwilling to rid Faraday of something that may very well pull through its supposed finality, just as he himself had done.

By the end of the doctor's ministrations, Faraday had looked like a trembling bundle of wound dressings and stitches. His eyes had drifted up to Emma's, glassy and unfocused, and the dazed expression had been a strangely encouraging sight after hours of watching his face contort with pain.  

But the sense of calm had been brief, halted by the well-intentioned doctor's decision to give Faraday some laudanum in hopes of easing his agony. Emma hadn't expected any issue to arise from it, but mere seconds after it had gone down Faraday's throat, it had come surging back up in a series of violent coughs. She and the doctor had quickly turned him on his side, watching in alarm as he gagged and retched, spilling blood and bile from his mouth.

Emma had wondered at the state of his stomach, remembering all the gunshot wounds in his abdomen, and felt her own belly turn at the thought of his insides overrun with metal and debris from getting shot down and blown up.

As she'd watched him shudder and heave, practically hacking up his guts, all she'd been able to do was hope that his healing didn't delay.

 

* * *

 

The first question out of Faraday's mouth is quiet and rasping, scratching so terribly in his throat that Emma doesn’t quite comprehend the words. The confusion in her eyes tells him as much, and he sighs tiredly with a slow blink. Swallowing thickly, he opens his mouth again.

"We won?" He asks, dry and gravelly.

Understanding now, she responds with a nod. Bringing a cup of water to his chapped lips, she lifts his head up a bit to help him drink. He's only recently become entirely lucid, no longer fading in and out of awareness, and that hasn't been the only improvement. He's been able to keep small amounts of water down, and Emma has noticed some color finally returning to his skin. It's a welcome sight after days of him looking like some disturbingly animate corpse, and the slightest hint of red in his cheeks feels like a reassurance that he's truly alive.

As she helps him sip at the water, she elaborates slightly beyond her simple nod. "Bogue and his men are dead and gone. Rose Creek's in rightful hands now."

He swallows the water carefully, then rests his head more heavily on her hand. She lowers him back onto the pillow, studying his eyes as they shift to the side.

"And... everyone," he continues, voice slow from more than just exhaustion. She recognizes apprehension. "Sam and... all of 'em..."

Guessing at his intended question, and not wanting to force another word of his injured throat, Emma responds, "All alive, Mr. Faraday. The six of them left town not long before you... well, when you woke up."  

His eyes close, and Emma sees the vague hint of a smile on his worn face.  

 _Relief_ , she thinks.

 

* * *

 

 "Just about there, Teddy," Emma says. "Settle him in a little further."

It's been over a month since the battle of Rose Creek.  Somehow, Emma feels as though it's been much longer, yet she can't deny how fresh the memories of the fight still are. Faraday seems to be feeling the same distension of time, trapped in one room, on one bed.

He's expressed his discomfort many times, grousing in frustration at his own inability to do anything about it, but the last few days have seen him growing unbearably restless. He'd finally broken to the point of insisting that someone help him sit up in bed, unable to continue lying endlessly on his back.

Now, with Teddy's assistance, Emma is carefully lifting Faraday forward into a semi-sitting position, arranging his pillows behind him for support. They stand on opposite sides of him, pulling him up as he holds firmly to their shoulders. He hisses in pain as they move him, but doesn't ask that they stop or slow down, seeming determined to just get it over with. Gently as they can, they settle him back against the headboard and the pillows, ensuring that he's comfortable.

Faraday sighs, resting his head back for a moment. "Thanks," he says, voice still weak but a little clearer now.

Emma nods to Teddy, and he nods back at her before making his way out of the room. She lifts a cup of water from the nightstand, holding it out towards Faraday.

"Wanna try it yourself, now that you're upright?" She asks.

He looks at her, seeming a bit surprised at the offer. But he nods, hand shaking as he lifts it up to take hold of the water.

She passes it to him slowly, quietly indicating that he might want to use both hands by nudging the one still resting on the mattress. He follows her silent advice, bringing his other hand up to wrap it securely around the cup, carefully taking it from her. Setting the edge of it against his lips, he tilts it up and takes a few sips, spilling just a little down his chin.

As he hands the cup back to her, she smiles, pleased at the small bit of progress he's made. At that moment, something in her chest tightens, heavy and uncomfortable. She can't place what it is, or where it came from, and she's quick to brush the feeling away before any reason can make itself clear.

She sets the cup back on the nightstand, then reaches to grab the edge of Faraday's blanket, pulling it up to cover more of him. He lifts his arms a bit to let her tuck it underneath, and she watches as his eyes drift around the room.

There's not much to see, but she supposes that a lot of things become more interesting after weeks of being trapped on your back, staring at a ceiling. Even so, she doesn't expect him to take an interest in anything their surroundings have to offer. But his eyes focus on something, and she can't help curiously following his gaze.

Turning, she realizes he's spotted his vest slung over a chair, bloodied and tattered, unmoved since she'd placed it there weeks ago.

"What's that in the pocket?" He asks, pointing toward the bottom right of the vest.

Emma smiles a bit, not having thought about it since Rose Creek's other six saviors had paid their respects. "Bottle of whiskey," she says, turning to look back at Faraday. "Mr. Vasquez left it with you, just before leaving town."

Had Faraday known what she was going to say, Emma suspects he would've managed something far more neutral in terms of his reaction. As it is, he seems overcome by something, his eyes betraying him as he swallows hard with a clench of his jaw. It catches her off guard, the brief spark of something deeper than she'd expected, something softer in his eyes. She feels as though there must be more she isn't seeing, but the glimpse is quick to vanish. Faraday blinks, and when he looks back at her it's with an expression that seems a bit too bright.

"Well, I oughta try that myself as well, now that I'm upright," he says, grinning.

Emma rolls her eyes, half at the suggestion and half at his obvious avoidance of whatever feelings he'd been struck with upon learning of Vasquez's parting gift. She responds with her own grin, tight and sardonic.

"You wouldn't stay upright long," she tells him. "One sip of that and I'd have to wash the contents of your stomach off the damn floor again."

"You're just spoilin' everything," he grumbles, but she can see him smile as he rests his head back a bit and shuts his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Late one night, Emma feels the odd, uncomfortable tightening in her chest again.

She's certain it isn't the result of anything physical; it stems from somewhere deep in her mind and curls down low, thrumming like a sore nerve underneath her breastbone.

It comes about for seemingly no reason, as she's sitting next to Faraday's bed, a book in her hand and a new deck of cards stacked in his. Trembling hands shuffle repeatedly, well-practiced but struggling. Occasionally, he'll interrupt her reading with a request that she pick a card from the deck, and she indulges him, no matter how many times his trick ends with a softly uttered curse as he fails to pull it off with the proper speed and flare. Each time, he goes right back to shuffling, unwilling to neglect his dwindling skill.

Most everyone in town is asleep, and Emma supposes she would be too if sleep didn't elude her so much these days. Faraday, with his various aches and pains, hasn't been able to sleep a full night since the day he'd woken in his coffin. He sleeps when his body lets him, and on the nights it doesn't, Emma sometimes finds herself keeping him company. They don't often say much to each other, content in silent companionship.

But tonight, when she feels the heavy, buzzing weight in her chest, Emma mind is struck by curiosity. Questions, hardly new, now shifting to the front of her mind. She looks up from her book, one hand resting under her chin to cup the side of her face.

"When did you know?" She asks. Faraday looks away from his cards, eyes questioning. "That you were... different, I mean. When did you realize you couldn't be killed?"

He looks at her for a moment, caught off guard by the bluntness of her words, though he doesn't seem upset by them. His eyes drift back to his cards, and he continues shuffling, his hands shaking but his manner casual.

"Should've realized sooner than I did," he replies. "First time, didn't know what the hell was goin' on."

She places her book down in her lap. "What happened?"  

"Horse kicked me down good when I was a kid," he says. "I got hit, everything went dark... then I was awake and my ma was holdin' me tight, cryin'. I didn't know what had her so upset, or why my head hurt worse than it ever did before."

Emma wonders if his mother had endured agonized screams anything like the ones she'd heard tear from Faraday's throat not long ago.

"Can't imagine she didn't know," he continues. "But I doubt she had the heart to tell me what I was... hell, I doubt she wanted to admit it to herself."

Emma's brow furrows. "What makes you say that?"

He looks at her, eyes narrowed. "You think I haven't noticed that I hardly see anyone in this town but you? That I don't know what most folks think of someone like me?"

She knows he's right. Nearly every resident of Rose Creek is apprehensive of Faraday, put off by the very nature of his existence. But as she pictures it, a mother weeping over her dead child, only to have him open his eyes and breathe again, she can't imagine fear or disgust.

"Wasn't she happy, when you woke?"

Faraday's eyes remain focused on his cards. "Don't remember it much..." He splits the deck in two and riffles the cards, slow but accurate. "S'pose she was."

"'Course she was," Emma says with a nod. "Who wouldn't be, if someone they loved..."

She trails off, the tightness in her chest seeming to burn now, crackling and winding into the pit of her stomach.

"Well, anyway..." She swallows. "It's pretty remarkable, what you can do."

He shrugs. "I don't do a damn thing, other than get myself killed." He fans the deck. "And even that ain't ordinarily on purpose."

"Ordinarily?"

"Well, most times I'm not ridin' towards a Gatlin' gun with a stick of dynamite in my vest."

Emma smiles, something about his matter-of-fact way of describing what he'd done that day giving her a strange flicker of amusement. But there's something in his eyes, something darker. Her smile drops, slowly.

"Can't be easy," she says. "Doin' that to yourself when you know you're gonna wake up to feel it."

He glances at her, expression hardening a bit. "Like I said, things ain't normally so dramatic. Most deaths are simple, easy to picture wakin' up from."

For a moment, Emma's mind lingers over how peculiar it is to hear death described as simple, how disrespectful it would sound if it weren't Faraday referring to his own personal experience. But then she considers his other words, and there's something she can feel buried underneath them.

"It wasn't so easy, then?" She isn't really asking. "To imagine it... to really believe you'd wake up from somethin' like that."

His eyes snap to hers, unsettled and defensive. Emma knows she must've picked up on something he hadn't meant to give away.

Only now does she see how much she'd assumed about his ability to survive. She'd imagined that it must be an infallible constant in his life, and that he must know far more about the inner workings of it all. Not once had she considered that he might be so limited, unable to guarantee the extent of what his gift allowed him to live through.

Had he thought, when he'd lit that stick of dynamite, that he may never open his eyes again? Emma remembers his unbearable misery, his tortured screams, and she wonders... had he hoped?

It's a question that feels intrusive to even ponder, let alone ask. Emma thins her lips, looking at her lap for a moment. There's a brief silence, awkward and heavy, broken when Faraday holds his fanned deck of cards out towards her.

"Pick a card," he says, blatantly changing the subject.

She does as requested, selecting a card from the middle and committing it to memory, then she slides it back in the deck. As usual, there's a shuffle and a cut, tremorous but precise, and he lifts one card from the top. The wrong one, of course. It's always wrong the first time, and he means it to be. She shakes her head, giving him a slight smile, and patiently awaits the end of the trick.

"9 of spades, right?"

She nods.

His next move, something she'd come to recognize as an attempt to seemingly pull the card from thin air, doesn't go any more smoothly than it had in any of his earlier efforts. It's clumsy and slow, and there's a fraction of a second where she can see the card pinched between his fingers at the back of his hand. It flies out from his unsteady grip and flutters onto the mattress.

"Damn it," he says, under his breath.

He picks the card up and places it back in the deck, shuffling again. His hands look to be trembling worse than before, irritation and exhaustion creeping in. Emma looks at his face, so worn and scarred, agitation bleeding into his gaze as he focuses steadily on the cards.

As she watches him, her own hand fiddles absently with the pages of her book, and she considers picking it up again, leaving him be and allowing the night to slip back into its previous, comfortable silence.

He turns to her, expression tired. "Somethin' else you need, Ms. Emma?"

She can hear the impatience, the evidence in his voice telling her that she'd pushed a little too far, pried a little more out of him than he would ever deliberately share. Certainly not with her, despite the growing trust she's felt ever since he'd woken in his grave and she'd responded only with care and comfort. He says more to her than he does to most, but she knows there's a limit, and one can hardly blame him for that.

Still, something in her struggles to feel guilty, to feel more than a sliver of regret at stepping over the line. Her mind remains occupied, and the heaviness in her chest is sharp and unrelenting. She isn't finished wondering, isn't finished asking. Her book remains on her lap, and she disregards the potential for calm and silence, knowing she can't move on so easily.

"Could someone..." She trails off, pausing for a moment. The words stick in her throat as she grows nervous at Faraday's possible response. "If they had a mostly quiet life, I mean. Could they not... realize? Not even know what they're capable of livin' through?"

 _Can a man be shot in the middle of the street_ , she doesn't say. _Dead and buried, but still eventually wake?_

At hearing her words, Faraday's hardened gaze softens a bit, and Emma's stomach clenches at the unmistakable flash of sympathy in his eyes. She doesn't want sympathy, doesn't want his pity. She wants him to answer her. A contradictory set of emotions swell up inside her when he opens his mouth to do just that.

"Don't see why not," he says, though there's something cautious in his tone. "Gettin' killed ain't exactly somethin' that happens to everyone. But I can't claim to know all that much about the way it works."

"Why?" Emma asks, throat feeling tight.

"Don't have much to go on, other than myself. Only seen it from the outside once," he explains. "There was a woman I came across, dead in a ditch not far from a small town. Had a nasty wound on the side of her head and a couple of her limbs were bent wrong from bein' thrown down there."

Emma grimaces. "Thrown?"

Faraday nods. "Fella who killed her wasn't too bright, probably hid her in a hurry."

Her eyebrows furrow. "Why'd he kill her?"

"From what I could gather, he had a violent temper and she was determined not to give him what he wanted."

For a moment, Emma is distracted from the aching in her chest, feeling a wave of disgust towards a man she's never even met. Faraday shoots her a brief look, silently concurring.

"I was gonna ride into town and let 'em know I'd found a body," he continues. "Figured she deserved a proper burial and all. But I didn't even have a chance to mount Jack before I heard her cryin' out from down in the ditch."

Emma swallows, recalling Faraday's first terrified shout from inside his coffin. She can still remember it vividly, sounding so panic-stricken, disoriented in the midst of sudden, overwhelming pain.

"Did what I could to calm her down, but with a head injury bad enough to kill her and two broken limbs, she wasn't about to stop screamin' anytime soon. So I waited."

It's strange, Emma thinks, to picture Faraday attempting to soothe someone in the throes of agony. Perhaps because of his rough, abrasive manner, or because she'd so recently been the one to soothe him in his own time of need. He must've understood the pain of waking in such a state, certainly better than most.

Emma listens as he finishes the story, feeling some relief to learn that woman hadn't hesitated to name her killer, and he'd been convicted, a rare triumph of justice. But glad as she is to hear it, her heart and mind don't fully shift their interest, not for a moment. She suspects that Faraday may have intended to distract her, pull her mind away from difficult questions. It had worked for a moment, but her determination to get a real answer out of him is quick to return, despite the dread stirring in her belly.

"Mr. Faraday," she says, tone pressing but quiet. "I think you know what I'm asking."

His eyes meet hers, heavy and grim. He hesitates, staring for a short while before swallowing with a nod. "I do," he admits. "But I don't think you'll like my answer."

Emma feels something like thorns twist around her heart, squeezing tight as she clenches her jaw.

"Why not?" She asks, though the reason is clear.

"If I'd come back after they buried me, I'da clawed my way up," he says. "Even hurtin' like I was, I wouldn't have stayed down there long. Everything in me was screamin' to get out of that coffin the second I opened my eyes."

His words snatch away every last shred of hope she'd be clinging to, every desperate and irrational desire. Only now does it hit her how long she'd been hoping, how quickly her mind had begun to question the possibility after watching Faraday return from death itself. Tucked in the back of her mind, a question too frightening to ask herself, let alone anyone who could truly answer it.

Could Matthew come back?

By some mysterious miracle, could he return to her?

"Bein' buried wouldn't have stopped me," Faraday says, voice unusually soft. "Wouldn't stop anyone. Don't hold out hope for somethin' that won't happen if it hasn't happened by now."  

 _Too late_ , she thinks.

Hope had filled her heart well before she could even realize, sitting like a stone in her chest as she tried her hardest to ignore it. How could she acknowledge it, knowing she would most likely have to face the ugly truth? Knowing she might be left with fresh wounds in her soul, struck by unbearable grief for the second time, for the same loss.

Faraday doesn't say another word to her, offering no useless comforts or cloying remarks of optimism for the future. It's better that way, but she doesn't have the strength to feel grateful for it.

They sit in silence, and her heart breaks all over again.


End file.
